Let me tell you my son, the true goblin tale,
of Jack and the bean and his brother pale.
How he crept beneath, an old hag did find,
who sold him a bean for bone chips of nine.
His brother did mock, for fool Jack was robbed,
but Jack laughed last stuffing bean in his gob.
That watch he slept sound, while his brother did thrash,
and woke in the morn his head did whiplash.
From brother’s bed a pale plant did rise,
a goblin skinned beanstalk rose to the sky.
Jack grinned all rotten, his bro transmogrified,
but with that grim act he was not satisfied.
He climbed brother beanstalk and stepped Up Top,
a thief in the night, he would steal the lot.
Jack spotted a palace, the giants lived there,
he rubbed his hands, oh it wouldn’t be fair.
He ate through a cake and stole a goose,
peed in their slippers and danced footloose.
At last he was full and sated with greed,
but morning was dawning and so he must flee.
For each broodling knows, should the sun spot your ass,
you better run quick, bolt better than fast.
So Jack grabbed his sack full of goose and blue cheese,
and made for bro beanstalk, his mind at unease.
Before he went far, the sun crested the land,
and spotted the goblin, filthy lucre in hand.
Jack was slippery and shadow did find,
but she rose above and gleamed down from the sky.
Now darkness is a thief’s best friend,
but at noon there neither dim hollow, nor black bend.
Jack made a last dash, the beanstalk in sight,
but burdened with loot she pinned him alight.
Now the sun sees true, to the rotten within,
and beholding Jack there was naught but bold sin.
He hissed and he lied, he squirmed and peeled,
but in the end, he burned down to real.
That is my tale, son of my rot,
buy beans from old biddies and you’ll burn on the spot!
Peter C Church, Oct 2024